


Safehouse Secrets

by Jo (jmathieson)



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Crack, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, adults using their words, sort-of meta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-10 10:05:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1158338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jmathieson/pseuds/Jo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil decides it's time to let Clint in on a secret...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safehouse Secrets

“That would never work in real life,” Clint Barton muttered under his breath.

Phil Coulson glanced briefly over to where Barton was sitting next to him on the sofa, seemingly completely engrossed in the film he was watching. Coulson’s eyes flicked to the screen, where Tom Cruise was climbing the side of a skyscraper with the aid of some sort of high-tech gloves.

Barton, who saw (almost) everything, noticed his handler’s shift of attention and said,

“Sorry, boss.”

“That’s okay. I’m just going through some of the background files on the latest bunch of recruits. It doesn’t need all my concentration. Besides, I thought you’d seen this movie already?”

“I did, on the plane to Albuquerque that time, remember?”

Coulson remembered, even though he’d slept through most of the flight, because Barton had hummed the Mission Impossible theme on the comms for most of the rest of the op.

“But you can’t properly appreciate a film like this on the tiny little screen in the back of an airplane seat,” Clint said, stretching his legs out and luxuriating in the big comfy sofa and the wide-screen TV. SHIELD safehouses ran the gamut from a hut with an old ammo box full of MREs, to a full-service suite at a five-star hotel. In his ten years as a SHIELD agent, Coulson had seen far too much of the former and not enough of the latter. Barton would no doubt agree, as he was putting their two-day enforced down time in this nice, upscale, two-bedroom condo to good use by catching up on his pop-culture appreciation.

“Seriously,” said Barton, now that he knew he wasn’t disturbing Coulson’s work, “There isn’t anywhere near enough power in those gloves to be holding his body weight. Maybe if he was wearing a backpack full of batteries or something, but then the batteries would add to the weight…”

“Barton, you do understand that it’s just a movie, right?”

“Sure, of course, but that’s no reason they can’t get the science right, or at least not totally wrong…”

Coulson smiled a very small, fond smile at his keyboard. The Clint Barton sitting next to him, bitching about the verisimilitude of a Hollywood blockbuster wasn’t the same man he had started working with four years ago. That Clint had been shy, and had hidden his shyness under cockiness and snark. That Clint had been insecure and afraid, and had pushed people away as a result.

This Clint was confident, happy, and content, and Phil liked to think that he had a hand in the transformation. Phil smiled again at his keyboard (even though he knew Clint could no doubt see his expression) and made a decision. It probably wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had, but he knew he wasn’t going to get a better opportunity anytime soon… He’d already waited long enough.

A few minutes later, Phil put his laptop to sleep and moved it to the coffee table in front of them. He settled back into the comfortable sofa and asked,

“What did I miss?”

“A decent op in the Kremlin with some pretty cool tech, and a sandstorm.”

Phil turned his attention to the screen, where an actor was talking about how he failed to protect his asset. Clint went still next to him, and Phil felt the same pang of guilt over the ones he had failed to save, in his time. Phil wanted nothing more than to reach out to Clint and offer what comfort he could, but it wasn’t his place… not yet. The decision he had just made weighed heavy in his mind, and yet he knew it was the right one. Now all he needed was the courage to speak up. Some sort of convenient opening would be helpful, too.

Clint shifted beside him and his attention sharpened. Phil looked at the screen. The actor who bore a faint resemblance to Clint himself was talking on the comms to his team. Something about being “about to jump.”

“Now that’s a mighty fine ass,” Clint said as William Brandt did a couple of lunges in preparation for the jump that he was apparently about to make. 

Phil was used to that kind of remark from Clint. At first his constant stream of commentary on attractive women and men, often on the comms during a mission, was part of the cockiness Clint hid behind, but now, Phil was quite sure, it was just habit. 

“Come on, boss, you can’t tell me that’s not a superb ass.” Clint shot him a grin.

Phil looked. Phil made sure Clint saw him looking. Phil even cocked his head, appraisingly.

“I’ve seen better,” he said in all seriousness. He would have liked to add, ‘Yours, for one,’ but he had decided to be a little more subtle than that, for now, anyway.

“Haha, very funny, boss. I’ve never once in four years seen you check out a guy’s ass, and I see everything.”

“Ten years in the army under ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,’ a man learns how to look without letting on that he’s looking,” Phil said mildly, watching as the actor jumped into an elevator shaft and was somehow suspended by what were no doubt some very un-scientific magnets above some sort of whirling fan contraption. Why did these movies always have fans in the action sequences? Did the director somehow think that adding a fan made things more exciting?

Phil became aware that Clint was no longer watching the movie, but was instead staring at him. Phil turned.

“Something wrong, Barton?”

“No, of course not. I… I guess I just never imagined that you were a switch hitter.”

“I’m not.”

“See, I knew you were just pulling my leg...”

“I‘m gay.”

“You’re gay,” Clint repeated dumbly.

“Fruity as a kumquat tree.” Phil hoped to get a grin out of Clint for that, but Clint just stared. His mouth actually gaping open for a minute before he shut it with a snap.

“Well,” he said, and then stopped, as if the rest of the sentence had evaporated between his brain and his mouth.

Phil turned back to the screen, and when Clint didn’t say anything for a full two minutes, Phil said,

“Yours, for one.”

“My what?”

“Ass. It’s much better than his.” Phil waved a hand at the actor who was now careening into some sort of equipment.

Clint was staring at him again.

“You’ve been checking out my ass.”

Phil shrugged. “You’ve got a great ass.”

“Yeah, but… You. You’re gay and you’ve been checking out my ass, and you think it’s better than his.” Clint’s eyes flicked to the screen for an instant.

“Yes. Is that a problem?” Phil raised an eyebrow at him.

“No. Of course not. No problem at all. Look at my ass all you like. Uh… I mean. You know. It’s totally not a problem.” Clint seemed to realize that he was babbling and shut up. He fixed his eyes resolutely back on the TV screen, and watched the rest of the movie. Phil carefully hid his smile. That had gone well. The ball was now firmly in Clint’s court, which was exactly where Phil wanted it.

SHIELD didn’t have any fraternization regs. The upper echelons had been smart enough to realize that a) people who did this kind of work together would inevitably form strong bonds; and b) it was actually a lot better for operational security for SHIELD agents to be dating, and sleeping with, each other. So Phil had no reason not to ask Clint out on a date, but he didn’t want to. Well, he did. He wanted to very much. But he needed to be absolutely, one-hundred percent sure that Clint wasn’t just humoring him. His 47-year-old, balding ego was fragile enough, thank you very much. So Phil wanted Clint to make the next move. Assuming that Clint was interested, of course. Phil was sure he was. Pretty sure. Ninety-five percent sure. Maybe ninety-two. Phil stared at the screen.

Next to him, Clint watched the rest of the movie in silence. Phil went back to his laptop for just long enough to check his email one last time, and then shut everything down and put the machine away in its case. Then he stretched out comfortably to watch the end of the film. When the credits started to roll, Clint hit the mute button.

“Coulson, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Why now?”

“Why now what?”

“Why’d you choose now to tell me that you’re gay?”

“It seemed like the right thing to do. I trust you. We’re friends, at least I’d like to think we are, and it started to feel like I was hiding something from you. Lying to you, by omission, at least. And I didn’t want to do that. So…” Phil shrugged, palms up.

Clint nodded.

“Yeah, okay. I get that. Um… thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You want to pick the next movie?”

“No, that’s okay, you go ahead.”

“You realize that means another dumb action flick. Though you don’t have to stay, of course…” Clint trailed off, looking decidedly unhappy about the idea of Coulson not staying to watch another movie with him.

Phil settled himself more comfortably on the sofa and put his hands behind his head.

“I’m game to watch anything you choose,” he said, with a smile at Clint that suddenly meant something more than it would have a couple of hours ago.

“Yeah, okay.” Clint got off the couch and stared at the DVD rack for a few minutes, obviously having a hard time deciding. He finally made a choice, and, with his trademark smirk firmly back in place, looked over his shoulder and asked,

“What do you think of Keanu Reeves’ butt?”

“It’s okay. Still not as good as yours,” Phil said.

Phil saw the tips of Clint’s ears turn slightly pink, and he stood up as the FBI warned them against pirating the film.

“I’m going to get a drink. You want something?” Phil asked. 

“If there’s any Gatorade left, I’ll have one, thanks.”

Phil came back from the kitchen with a glass of juice for himself and a bottle of Gatorade for Clint. He never, ever drank when he was working (and seldom enough when he wasn’t) but he suddenly wished that SHIELD safehouses were stocked with beer. Or scotch.

The opening titles for “Speed” ran across the screen, and Phil said,

“You know, I’ve never actually seen this one.”

“It’s… I like it, it’s fun,” Clint said a little shyly, and then was quiet as the film started.

They watched in companionable silence, and 116 minutes later when the credits rolled, Clint thumbed the mute button on the remote again.

“Hey, Phil?”

“Yes?”

“After we finish up with this mission, would you, ah… would you like to go out to dinner with me sometime?”

“I’d like that very much, Clint. Very much.”

“Cool.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Selori for beta-reading!


End file.
